"Jews don’t fish.” It is a phrase I have heard again and again in the two and a half years that I have written this blog. Perhaps there is some kind of anti-fishing bias out there among my fellow Jews. What exactly is not kosher about fishing? Is it true that Jews don’t fish?
The most common Jewish objection that I hear about fishing is that it is cruel to the fish. It is one thing to eat trout since we need sustenance, but to fish for sport is not ethical. One person even wrote to me that if I enjoy being in nature so much, why not go for a hike, instead of torturing the fish?
I share these concerns for the ethics of fly fishing. I practice catch and release. I take steps to insure that the fish are returned to the water with a minimum of disturbance. I would argue that catch and release is better for the planet and the fish. If every fish caught was kept for food, our streams and lakes would soon be empty.
Fishing is not hiking; it is an activity that involves life and death, and connects us to a more primal side of ourselves that we do not often experience in our 21st Century lives. However, when I am on the stream, I seek to make fly fishing as humane and ethical as possible.
Along with concern for the ethics of fishing, perhaps the anti-fishing bias is an unintended result of the Jewish emphasis on eduction. We are the people of the book. Our most holy object is a scroll of writing, the Torah. Education helped our immigrant ancestors get out of the Lower East Side and the crowded inner cities and succeed beyond our wildest expectations in America.
Yet, this emphasis on education also created the stereotype that Jews only care about intellectual pursuits. Somehow it got to be a Jewish cultural value to say that success in sports and outdoor activities like fishing are less worthwhile than getting good grades and succeeding in school.
The fact is that getting into a good college is probably more important than being good at fly fishing. Education gives your more options in life. However, there is nothing wrong with pursuing activities that require you to use your body and not just your mind.
One of the reasons that I love to fly fish is that it gives my brain a rest. Casting a fly rod is about feeling the physicality of the line in your fingers and trying to make a small bunch of feathers and thread land gracefully on the water. Fly Fishing also feeds my soul. Standing in a stream at sunrise, I appreciate the beauty of our world, and feel a deep spiritual connection to all that is around me.
Along with hearing the phrase “Jews don’t fish,” I also receive many emails that begin something like this: “Dear Rabbi, It’s so nice to meet another Jew who loves to fish. I thought I was the only one out there!” I have learned that Jews do fish! And there are plenty of people who find fishing to be a spiritual experience, both Jews and non-Jews. It seems to me that our energy is better spent not worrying about stereotypes, but instead pursuing those activities in life that provide us with fulfillment and meaning, no matter what they are.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
What is A Fly Fishing Rabbi?
On Friday nights you can find me leading services at Temple Shearith Israel in Ridgefield, Connecticut. But on Sunday summer afternoons chances are I’ll be waist-deep in a cold-water stream, casting my dry flies to those mysterious and hidden trout. On the pulpit I am known as Rabbi Eisenkramer; on the river, I am The Fly Fishing Rabbi.
My introduction to fly fishing was the film A River Runs Through It, which interweaves fishing, religion, Montana, and early 20th-century life. As the narrator Norman Maclean explains, “In my family, there was no clear division between religion and fly fishing.” The wondrous Montana scenery, the graceful casting, the excitement of the rising fish—to put it simply, I was hooked. Not long afterwards I purchased my first fly-fishing rod, a St. Croix 5/6 weight 8’6” which serves me well to this day.
I have since discovered a kindred spirit in the Reverend John Maclean, Norman’s father, who dedicated much of his adult life to searching for trout and for God, both of which can be equally elusive. Fly fishing is indeed a spiritual experience—one of the two sanctuaries of my life. On the trout stream it’s just me, the water, and the fish. All my worries disappear. I am in the moment, so caught up in the casting for trout that everything else recedes.
One of my favorite rivers is in a nature preserve. Sometimes a family of ducks swims by, first the mother, then six young ones rustling their baby feathers. In silence I watch them pass. As I walk to my car at sunset, I sometimes see a small herd of deer among the trees. I stop. In silence we stare at each other. I feel in harmony with nature: man and ducks, man and deer, God’s creatures, spending a moment together, sharing the same space, suspended in time.
Of course, the trout and I do not have such an idyllic relationship. I am either catching and releasing them or getting frustrated that they will not take my fly. Still, when I’m standing in a river fishing, not moving, not talking, hearing only the sounds of insects and flowing water, I feel at peace with all around me.
It is when we are in harmony with our surroundings that we find shalom, peace. The root meaning of shalom is wholeness or completeness. Psalm 34 teaches us, bakesh shalom v’rodfeihu, “Seek peace and pursue it.” Here shalom has a double meaning—not only to end conflict and war, but to seek harmony and wholeness in our lives.
On one fishing trip in rural Missouri, I decided to hike to the source of the river. There I discovered a cold water spring rushing forth from the rocks, feeding a large circular pool, sending thousands of gallons of pure water down the river. Watching it, I felt the wonder of nature and of its Creator. I thought of the Israelites in the desert, parched and without water, of Moses striking the rock and releasing a copious stream.
Feelings of appreciation and connection to nature are a doorway that can lead to the Divine. The story is told of a doctor who watched a solar eclipse. Awed by the beauty of this event, he clapped and cried out: “Encore, Encore!”—and then, upon reflection, he added: “Author, Author!” When fly fishing I feel the same impulse. Sometimes I find myself moved to say, “Baruch Atah Adonai, eloheinu melech haOlam, Blessed are You, Adonai our God, who creates all.”
One need not be a rabbi or a fly fisherman to unearth the spiritual possibilities of the natural world. We need only open our eyes to God’s sanctuary to find beauty, awe, and peace.
This article first appeared in Reform Judaism Magazine
My introduction to fly fishing was the film A River Runs Through It, which interweaves fishing, religion, Montana, and early 20th-century life. As the narrator Norman Maclean explains, “In my family, there was no clear division between religion and fly fishing.” The wondrous Montana scenery, the graceful casting, the excitement of the rising fish—to put it simply, I was hooked. Not long afterwards I purchased my first fly-fishing rod, a St. Croix 5/6 weight 8’6” which serves me well to this day.
I have since discovered a kindred spirit in the Reverend John Maclean, Norman’s father, who dedicated much of his adult life to searching for trout and for God, both of which can be equally elusive. Fly fishing is indeed a spiritual experience—one of the two sanctuaries of my life. On the trout stream it’s just me, the water, and the fish. All my worries disappear. I am in the moment, so caught up in the casting for trout that everything else recedes.
One of my favorite rivers is in a nature preserve. Sometimes a family of ducks swims by, first the mother, then six young ones rustling their baby feathers. In silence I watch them pass. As I walk to my car at sunset, I sometimes see a small herd of deer among the trees. I stop. In silence we stare at each other. I feel in harmony with nature: man and ducks, man and deer, God’s creatures, spending a moment together, sharing the same space, suspended in time.
It is when we are in harmony with our surroundings that we find shalom, peace. The root meaning of shalom is wholeness or completeness. Psalm 34 teaches us, bakesh shalom v’rodfeihu, “Seek peace and pursue it.” Here shalom has a double meaning—not only to end conflict and war, but to seek harmony and wholeness in our lives.
On one fishing trip in rural Missouri, I decided to hike to the source of the river. There I discovered a cold water spring rushing forth from the rocks, feeding a large circular pool, sending thousands of gallons of pure water down the river. Watching it, I felt the wonder of nature and of its Creator. I thought of the Israelites in the desert, parched and without water, of Moses striking the rock and releasing a copious stream.
Feelings of appreciation and connection to nature are a doorway that can lead to the Divine. The story is told of a doctor who watched a solar eclipse. Awed by the beauty of this event, he clapped and cried out: “Encore, Encore!”—and then, upon reflection, he added: “Author, Author!” When fly fishing I feel the same impulse. Sometimes I find myself moved to say, “Baruch Atah Adonai, eloheinu melech haOlam, Blessed are You, Adonai our God, who creates all.”
One need not be a rabbi or a fly fisherman to unearth the spiritual possibilities of the natural world. We need only open our eyes to God’s sanctuary to find beauty, awe, and peace.
This article first appeared in Reform Judaism Magazine
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